


By Any Other Name

by FenHarelMaGhilana (WhitethornWolf)



Series: Nyssa of Ralaferin [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-02-24 08:25:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13209825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhitethornWolf/pseuds/FenHarelMaGhilana
Summary: The end of Danarius meant the end of the chase, or so Fenris thought. Evidently the Maker, if he ever existed, had other plans.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Nyssa is an original elvhen character who I've been working on since 2014 - 2015. You can find more works of her on her blog - https://flowercrowndalish.tumblr.com

A magister’s influence did not cease to be overnight. Like a torn shirt it unraveled slowly, each thread fraying and tangling until it compromised the strength of the fabric. The longer each thread the more time it would take, and Fenris knew Danarius’s reach was long indeed. It would have to be, to allow him to wield power and influence from Minrathous. To have those in his service hunt him long after he began to rot in the ground.

Still, Fenris had not been expecting the slavers.

They ambushed on the road leading out of Markham. A half-dozen soldiers, four bowmen and a  _ laetan _ ; a slaver mage in service to a magister. Trees on both sides of the road, thick enough for one to lose their way in seconds. They waited until dark to attack; they had been warned about him this time.

Fenris could see the fear in their eyes as they circled, swords out and watching warily. Behind them stood the mage, looking out of place surrounded by the hirelings. His hair and moustache were impeccably groomed; his robes did not have a speck of dirt on them. The crystal on his staff glowed a blood red.

Fitting.

“Ready to yield, slave?” he called to Fenris in Tevene.

“I am not a slave,” Fenris growled, but he did not attack. The words were meant to provoke his anger, to make him careless. He stood his ground.

Seconds crawled by in tense silence. Then one of the men charged, shouting a battle cry.

His sword had reach, but Fenris was flexible. He ducked under the swing, turned his sword and bashed the man in the throat with the pommel. His other hand formed a fist, channelling power into his hand. The man’s eyes bulged in terror as he thrust his fist forward, then --

Nothing. His fist cracked against the man’s helmet, his gauntlet leaving scrapes on the metal. Pain stabbed through his knuckles, but it wasn’t the usual burn of the lyrium. Why didn’t it work?

Fenris didn’t have time to wonder. He threw the man aside and ducked at a swing from another slaver’s sword.

He grabbed at the man, phasing his fist through the breastplate. This time it worked, though it took such force he nearly staggered from the pain. So did the man, convulsing as Fenris’s hand closed around his heart. His eyes rolled back into his head and blood gushed from his mouth. 

Fenris crushed the man’s heart in his fist quickly; he was no beast. He would not let the man linger in agony, even if he was a slaver. He pulled his hand back, trying to channel the lyrium again -- but all he felt was a wall of solid bone closed around his wrist.

Another soldier approached, then another. Fenris turned quickly, but the man was -- literally -- dead weight. One soldier kicked the sword out of his free hand, and another forced him to his knees.

They knew. They knew his abilities were not working.

Even without the powers, he was no weakling. Seven years in Kirkwall had honed his combat skills to a fine art, and he was a deadly opponent even when surrounded. Anyone who spent enough time in Hawke’s company would improve thus, by way of necessity. It had been a trial by fire, and Fenris had come out the other side with enough skill and experience to know he would never again be caught unawares.

But they had caught up to him, hadn’t they? And without the markings they thought him a wolf without teeth.

Fenris saw the flash of light from the corner of his eye, seconds before the mage did. The man stopped mid-stride and looked down; first in surprise, then in horror. And then Fenris saw the vines sprouting from the ground, curling around his legs and holding him in place.

“ _ Kaffas! _ ” he swore as the vines trapped one hand to his side. He tried to angle his staff downwards, focusing magic through the crystal -- then another vine grabbed his wrist, tightening until he dropped the staff.

“What is --” his voice cut off suddenly as another vine wrapped itself around his neck, squeezing --

Then snapped his neck with an audible crack.

Fenris barely had time to wonder when a fog rose from beneath the dead mage. He certainly did not have time to move.

The rough hands dropped from his shoulders as the slavers broke formation. He could barely see more than their shadows, and their panicked shouts and stumbling footsteps were muted as if hearing through a wall.

Magic, of course. But who had cast the spell? Perhaps another rival slaver, scavenging from a fellow Tevinter’s ‘collection’. It certainly would not be the first time.

Then his hearing returned, so suddenly he felt his ears pop. Fenris began to twist his hand within the dead man, willing the lyrium to flow through his markings. His sword was infuriatingly out of reach; he could not cut himself free in time to face whoever had come to claim him now.

But it was not an army of rival slavers who walked out of the dissipating fog, but a single elf. It was dark enough to keep their face in shadow, but Fenris recognized the pointed ears and slighter frame.

As he watched warily, the elf kicked over the slaver mage’s corpse. He saw the muted green glow of another crystal and scowled. Not a magister, but still a mage. An apostate, although all mages were apostates nowadays.

“Filth,” the elf muttered in a thick accent, and used the butt of their staff to turn the corpse’s head facing up. The mage’s neck was twisted at an odd angle, and his head flopped in the dirt like a fish. He had been dead before his b ody hit the ground.

Fenris tried to twist his hand free yet again, and the movement caught the elf’s attention. They turned, and the glow of their staff lit the dark shadows where he crouched. He caught a glimpse of dark eyes and a tattooed forehead.

“Keep your distance, mage!”

The elf stopped a few feet away between a pair of corpses, staff raised. The crystal brightened until its light was painful, and he had to turn his head.

“I was not expecting to find anyone alive,” they said. The light dimmed.

“Not surprising,” Fenris replied grimly. “You cast your spell carelessly.”

The elf laughed, and removed their hood. He recognized the tattoos of the Dalish; red lines twisting and intertwining along high cheekbones and across a strong nose.

“Why should I care if these demons live or die?” she said.

Fenris began to reach for his sword, making no effort at subtlety.

“They were no demons,” he said, when he’d pulled his sword towards him. “Just slavers.”

“It was a figure of speech.”

She watched him quietly while he attempted to angle the sword. Clumsy, but if he could not free himself without cutting the corpse’s flesh, so be it.

“Are you alright?” the elf asked finally.

Fenris sighed irritably. “Yes.”

“I ask because your hand seems to have gone through his chest. Most people usually just check their pockets.” She laid down her staff and dropped to her knees beside him.

“I told you to keep your distance,” Fenris growled.

“Strong words for a man wearing a corpse as an armband. My name is Nyssa.” She looked expectantly at him.

“Fenris.”

“ _ Aneth ara _ , Fenris. Will you at least let me help you? I have seen what happens to a man when he rots, and trust me...you don’t want your hand anywhere near it.”

Fenris was less wary of mages than he used to be despite living in Kirkwall, with its abundance of blood mages and Tevinters. Hawke had done much to change his views on magic over the years...but this elf was a stranger to him. 

Still, it seemed he had little choice.

“Yes,” he said grudgingly, and sat back to watch her work.

* * *

It took almost an hour to free Fenris’s hand from the dead man’s chest. 

Nyssa worked by the dim light of her staff. With a knife she carefully carved away chunks of leather armour, then flesh, then broke the bone with a precise technique that spoke of prior experience.

Perhaps she was a healer, Fenris thought. He’d only known one other healer who was a mage, but Anders was a poor example. The harm he caused far outstripped whatever healing he had done.

This woman on the other hand...

She was gentle, and he was not used to gentleness without violence to follow. It made him distinctly uncomfortable. He could not pull away fast enough when she freed his hand, and waved away her offer to heal any cuts.

Fenris went to the dead  _ laetan _ immediately, kicking away the staff still held in his limp fingers. A cursory inspection of his belt pouch found a folded letter with a broken wax seal, as he expected.

He did not read very well, even after all those years in Kirkwall. Hawke had tried to teach him, but he rarely had the luxury of time to learn. Still, he knew enough to understand the words.

_ Octus -- _

_ The ship docks at Ostwick. There will be sedatives for the slave, and you will ensure he is taken to Minrathous with all haste. He will require some memory removal…. _

Fenris crumpled the letter in his hand. It was all he could do not to tear it to shreds.

Nyssa stood watching him; if she was curious about the letter she didn’t show it. When he was done she began to drag the laetan and the other corpses to the side of the road, and it seemed appropriate to assist her in burying them. They worked in silence while the moon crawled across the night sky. Then finally, as the last pile of dirt covered the shallow pit they’d dug, she turned and began to walk into the trees.

“Wait!”

Nyssa stopped.

This was absurd, and nothing good could come of it. Nothing ever did where mages were concerned. But she had helped him, when it would have been easier to leave him to his fate.

She seemed unsurprised. “Are you coming?”

So they moved on.

 

Nyssa led him off the main road to a small dirt track, barely visible in the darkness. The trees on either side of the road began to press in, looming large enough to block out whatever moonlight shone from above.

She had been heading to Ostwick, she said, to take ship to Val Royeaux. A detour would not affect her plans overly. Not for the first time Fenris wondered what he was doing, why he was following this woman.

_ Your curiosity will be the death of you, _ he told himself. But he followed anyway.

She took him to a small hut not far from Markham’s outer wall. It was a rough thing of wood and moss, mostly overgrown with weeds, with a fire pit out the front.

“Did you live here?” Fenris asked, with a raised eyebrow.

She laughed, turning back towards him with a look of surprise. When he glanced at her questioningly she said, “I spend so much time on my own, I often forget to explain myself.”

“You are welcome to do so any time.” He couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice, but Nyssa didn’t seem to mind. She shrugged and raised a hand, and flames sprang from her palm.

Fenris’s sword was in his hand before he realized what he was doing.

She glanced at him, amused, then walked to the fire pit and extended her hand. The flames rolled down her flesh, sparks tumbling onto the stacked wood, and the logs began to smoke.

As he watched warily, she produced a cloth bundle from her pack.

“I found this hut yesterday while on my way out of Markham,” she said, and began to unroll the bundle. “It’s abandoned. Dusty, but otherwise warm enough. I did not think to return, but I thought you would prefer a roof over your head.”

“You thought I would... _ prefer _ it,” Fenris said slowly, eyes narrowed. “Am I to assume you brought me here for a reason?”

“I didn’t bring you here. You followed me.”

There was meat of some kind in the bundle and herbs with a sharp, tangy scent. Nyssa pulled a waterskin from her pack and poured some water over her hands, scrubbing vigorously until the blood from the dead men began to wash away. Then she emptied the rest into the iron pot hanging over the fire and began to pull apart the bundle of herbs.

Fenris lowered the sword and inched closer. The fire had doubled in size and its heat washed over him, banishing the chill of the night. He blinked at Nyssa, who returned his gaze with a smile.

“You can go, if you want,” she said, “but you look like a person who just had his hand cut from a dead man’s chest, and probably could use a decent meal.”

“Both are true.” He coughed awkwardly. “Do you wish me to...do anything?”

Nyssa tilted her head and regarded him.

“Yes,” she replied, and smiled again. “You could tell me about those markings.”

* * *

Nyssa said her meal would not be excellent, but Fenris found no cause to complain. The meat she roasted over the fire, collecting the drippings into the pot with the herbs and water to make a broth. It was a welcome change after days of overboiled tavern fare.

While he ate, he talked.

He had not told anyone about the origins of his markings in years. Hawke knew, and some of their mutual friends had put together bits and pieces from hearsay and conversations. Some had used that knowledge against him for mockery or cruelty. Others had never asked.

“So you were beholden to this Danarius,” Nyssa said, after he had fallen silent. “And he put these markings on you. He branded lyrium into your flesh.”

“Apparently I was a volunteer,” Fenris said grimly, and her expression darkened. “As if a slave ever has the freedom to choose.”

She took the pot back from him and stood. Her hands were shaking.

“I hope you killed him,” she said, and disappeared into the darkness.

He could have slipped away then. A part of him wanted to. Speaking of Danarius always left him feeling vulnerable and tense, like he exposed a part of himself dirty and shameful. It was easier to walk away from the feeling than it was to face it.

And yet, when Nyssa returned with a clean pot and full waterskin, there he remained. Even she looked surprised.

“Danarius is no more, but his lapdogs still hope to reclaim his ‘investment’ for themselves,” Fenris continued as she sat back down. “So far they have failed.”

“Interesting,” Nyssa said. She tapped her fingers on her chin, studying him for a moment. “And you say these lyrium markings give you unusual abilities.”

“Yes.”

“Do they normally trap your hand inside a person?”

“No. That was...a malfunction.”

“I’ll say. But why now?”

Fenris shrugged, irritated. “Perhaps I should have asked before escaping my master? I did not know I needed to satisfy your curiosity.”

Nyssa said nothing, her dark eyes gazing at him steadily. Eventually he sighed.

“I do not intend to seem ungrateful,” he said. “It is difficult to speak of, but you have helped me. I suppose I owe you the explanation.”

“You owe me nothing,” Nyssa said sharply. She stood, gesturing for him to do the same. “Do you know much of the elven language?”

“Almost none,” Fenris replied truthfully. He had little to do with the Dalish back in Kirkwall, unless you counted his brief conversations with Merrill. “But I recognize your tattoos as theirs.”

“They are called  _ vallaslin _ , blood-writing. Every Dalish receives them upon adulthood, but they are a choice we make.” She drew a little closer, her eyes reflecting the flickering fire light. “I can’t undo what the  _ shemlen _ did. I may be able to help you all the same. Will you stay, if only for a day or two? I think I may know how to help.”

_ This will not end well _ , Fenris thought, but this time he had trouble convincing himself.

“I will stay,” he said.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forewarning for some discussions of abuse themes.

Fenris slept better than he had in weeks.

Perhaps it was the solid roof over his head, or the quiet. Maybe it was knowing for now he was safe from the slavers -- even with the mage just outside.

He woke at dawn and went outside, bringing his sword with him. Nyssa sat cross-legged near the smouldering remains of the fire. Her hands were folded in her lap and her eyes were closed. He had barely taken a step when she opened her eyes and glanced over at him with a smile.

“Did you sleep well?”

He did not smile back. “What were you doing?”

Nyssa stood and stretched her arms upward, interlacing her fingers. “I was communicating with my mentor. He has an idea of how I may be able to help.”

Fenris didn’t bother asking how she had managed to get in touch with a person likely hundreds of miles away; ‘magic’ seemed to be a broad enough explanation.

“Your mentor,” he repeated.

“Yes, my teacher. I was to meet him in a few weeks’ time, but he knows now I will be delayed.” She retrieved her pack and began to rummage through it.

Her arm disappeared into the pack past the elbow, although it looked neither large or heavy. Magic again, Fenris supposed, to extend its carrying capacity. He had never seen such a thing.

“Here it is,” Nyssa said, and carefully pulled a rolled up cloth from the pack.

He sensed the lyrium before he saw its muted blue glow through the thin cloth, and he was on is feet in a flash.

“No!”

Nyssa stopped in the middle of unwrapping the vial. He saw the flash of fear in her eyes; the kind of fear he had known as a slave expecting violence for whatever transgression his master dreamt up that day.

He felt ashamed, but the lyrium was pulsating and its hum filled his ears, driving his memory back to a place it had not been for a long time. His skin tingled and burned along the markings, like lines of fire spreading across his entire body. 

Not one place had been left untouched by the stain of Danarius’s hands. Fenris knew this already, but he had allowed himself to forget for a little while. He crushed the churning fear and anxiety in his stomach, unclenched his fists and said softly, “No.”

Nyssa put down the vial and stood slowly, her hands outstretched. Not to shield herself from a blow, but to touch; to comfort.

“ _ Atish’an _ ,” she said. “ _ Ir abelas _ .”

“I do not know what that means,” Fenris said, but he did not move away.

She stopped short of touching him, curling her hands against her chest. “It means I should have known better. You told me how your markings were made. Giving you a reminder without warning is not a kind thing.”

Fenris sat across from the dying campfire and watched as she wrapped the vial back in its cloth.

“What did your mentor say?” he asked. The burning began to recede as the lyrium disappeared into her pack. He couldn’t tell if it was the markings’ response, or the strength of his memories.

“That I must replace the lyrium in your markings.” Nyssa reached for a book lying open beside her pack, closed it and put it away. “After seeing your reaction, I am not sure it is safe for me to be here, nor would I cause you any distress. So, it’s time for us to part ways.”

She stood, shouldering the pack, and went to retrieve her staff. As Fenris watched, the staff began to shrink in size until it was no bigger than a twig. She tucked it into her belt and turned to face him.

“So you will not help me,” Fenris said. The disappointment he felt came at a surprise, but he hid it behind his anger as always. “I should have expected no less from a  _ mage _ .”

Her face hardened. “I will not apologize for my magic.” He began to speak, but she cut him off with a raised hand. “I offered to help you, but I will not force you to do this. You must make that choice for yourself. Either way I cannot be sure of my safety.” She spread her hands. “So, what else am I to do,  _ lethallin? _ ”

He didn’t watch her leave.

* * *

It took perhaps ten minutes for Fenris to change his mind, after staring into the embers and thinking back on his last encounter with Danarius.

He knew he had competed for the markings as Leto, the slave wanting to free his mother and sister. As Fenris, they had caused him nothing but pain. Even the years in Kirkwall had been plagued with reminders of his past. A year after leaving was all it took for a new master to come and claim him.

Perhaps it would be easier to let the lyrium’s power fail. He would no longer be Fenris, the living weapon. He could not become Leto again, but he could be more than property for his former master’s vassals to fight over.

But then again…

It had always given him pleasure to think of how Danarius would rue the day he created the instrument of his destruction. That feeling had kept him alive until now, but there was more to the Imperium than one magister. He would remain a weapon, but a weapon that would wreak havoc on all Tevinter.

No slaver would be safe. He would make it so.

 

Fenris left the hut as it was and took nothing but his sword, which he slung over his back. It took little effort to trace Nyssa’s path back to the main road, and he wondered if she had done that deliberately. No doubt such a mage could cover her tracks well enough if she chose.

The road between Markham and Ostwick was down to well-trodden dirt this far away from either city, and like most rural highways it was mostly deserted. It was a straight road that stretched out for the next fifty miles.

Nyssa had not gone far down the road. 

“Stop!” Fenris said as he caught up to her, and she glanced over her shoulder. She did not look surprised to see him either, though her hand drifted to the staff tucked into her belt. He backed up a step and held his hands out in a ‘peace’ gesture.

“You offered your assistance without asking for anything in return,” he said. “I acted badly towards you, and I owe you an explanation.”

“I am a mage at a very dangerous time in Thedas,” Nyssa replied calmly. “Surely you can also understand why I’m concerned for my own safety.”

“I do. I…”

The pounding of hoofbeats reached their ears; at the same time the ground began to rumble under their feet. Without thinking Fenris grabbed Nyssa’s hand and pulled her off the road, moments before a carriage rushed past with its driver whipping the horses frantically. He caught a few curse words on the wind before they disappeared over the crested hill.

Nyssa blinked at him. Her eyes were a dark liquid green, and there were flecks of gold in her irises. He had not seen her in the daylight, nor had he been this close.

Fenris dropped her hand awkwardly and continued.

“It has been many years since I received these markings,” he said, “yet I remember only some of my life before. It is insufficient to say he changed only my abilities and my appearance. What he did was a...violation. It left a stain I cannot remove, and it is difficult to put those feelings aside.”

Nyssa’s expression softened. “I understand, as much as I am able. I have not experienced a life of slavery.”

“Nor would I wish it on you.”

Fenris pulled the mage’s letter from his pouch and handed it to Nyssa. She read it silently, her lips forming the words.

“This was on the slaver mage?” she said after a moment, and handed the letter back to him.

“They are tracking me,” he said. “I cannot face them alone. Certainly not without my abilities.”

“I’ll come with you.”

He hesitated. “I cannot pay you in coin.”

Nyssa shrugged. “Pay me in company instead, if you think you could stand to watch a mage’s back for a few days on the road.”

She smiled. This time Fenris returned it.

* * *

It  _ did _ eventually become less awkward.

With the next town -- a little village called Hambleton, according to Nyssa -- still a two day journey on foot, there was little to do but talk.

Sometimes their conversation turned towards darker subjects, like the possibility of the hunters tracking him. Sometimes they walked in silence with little to say, though Fenris caught her glancing at him from time to time.

She didn’t pressure him to ‘fix’ his markings, nor did she bring them up at all. Fenris had been disappointed at first, then relieved. Initially he thought a nudge towards making a decision would have helped. Later he realised he wasn’t ready -- not yet. Nor had he tried to use his abilities since they failed so unexpectedly. It would not do if he had his hand stuck in a place Nyssa could not free easily.

“You like this woman,” Nyssa said, on the beginning of their second day on the road. Fenris had been telling her about the years he’d spent in Kirkwall.

“Hm?”

“Isabela. You’ve mentioned her a few times.”

It was true; he did miss Isabela, and Varric, and Hawke. Not so much their mutual friends, although he had gotten along well with Donnic. Kirkwall was a mess of a city, but it had been his home for seven years. He had some stability for the first time in his life, and he needed that more than he realized.

“Oh,” he said, and shrugged. “She and I were...close, for a time.”

Nyssa gave him a knowing look. “Are you going back to Kirkwall to be with her?”

“It wasn’t like that. I…”

How could he explain the nature of his relationship with Isabela? It hadn’t really been a ‘relationship’ in the proper sense, but that didn’t make it any less important. She made him laugh and she asked nothing more of him than he wanted to give. It suited them for a time, and that time came to an end when he left Kirkwall.

“She is a friend,” he added. “That has never changed.”

“I understand,” Nyssa said. A moment of quiet, then she changed the subject. “I was in Kirkwall last year, you know. Just after the Chantry was destroyed.”

“I imagine that would have been chaos.”

She smirked. “That’s an understatement. Last I checked the templars were cracking down upon any mage in the city, saying an apostate was responsible for what happened.”

Fenris clenched his fists. Even a year later the thought of Anders made him angry.

“He was,” he growled.

“You knew him?”

“Unfortunately. He was an acquaintance of Hawke’s. The man was as insufferable a mage as I’ve ever met.”

The words were out of his mouth before he realized the implied insult, but Nyssa didn’t seem offended.

“Why a Chantry?” she wondered. “You would think he’d go after the templars directly.”

“I do not know his reasons,” Fenris replied tersely, “nor do I care to.”

“Fair enough.” Nyssa paused thoughtfully. “I have known people like that. They’re angry, wanting to lash out against the templars, destroy the Circles. They don’t think about who pays the price for their actions.”

“Hmm,” Fenris said. “Reason from a mage. I didn’t hear that often in Kirkwall.”

He hadn’t meant to be humorous, but Nyssa laughed anyway. “I’ll take that as a compliment, I suppose.”

 

They arrived in Hambleton that evening, and Fenris had to wonder why the Marchers bothered to call it a town at all. It was barely more than a few market stalls, a single road spanning the length of the town, and a bustling tavern whose lanterns were already lit when they stumbled in.

“Even I could stand a roof over my head tonight,” Nyssa said. She looked weary; no surprise given their constant pace.

“Do you...have the coin for it?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Of course I do. I don’t spend my days frolicking in the wilderness.”

“Evidently you do enough,” he replied dryly, “or we would not have met.”

Nyssa grinned, and beckoned him towards the tavern.

 

The place was packed with all sorts of people; humans, elves, dwarves and even a few Qunari. Miners, labourers, mercenaries, farmers...Fenris stood at the bar and watched them all carefully, tapping his fingers on the scratched, stained wood of the bar.

Were any of the patrons Tevinters? Unlikely, but impossible to tell. He hadn’t eluded capture all these years by being careless. He could watch them carefully from the bar, and let them come if they dared.

Nyssa returned a few moments later with a half empty coin purse and a frown.

“They have one room,” she said apologetically. “With one bed. There is nothing else.”

“Mm.” What she said caught up to him seconds later, and he blinked. “Oh.”

Now  _ that _ was a cliche from just about every book he had read since he learned how, Fenris thought with a grimace. Varric would have been pleased.

“Such a blush,” Nyssa said, grinning at him.

Caught by surprise, Fenris’s hand slipped on the bar. He shifted his weight to the other foot, gave her a withering look and said, “There is no blush.”

She leaned in closer, and his eyes flicked to her lips without realizing.

“Don’t worry,” she said, smirking. “I don’t bite.”

A mage and a comedian. Wonderful.

 

The tavern food was decent enough to justify its popularity. Being witness to Tevinter excess all his life gave Fenris a distaste for any food not relatively simple, but a hot meal was not a common occurrence for him. He enjoyed it while he could, dividing his time between scanning the tavern and watching Nyssa, who ate and drank with an air of ease that impressed him, considering the presence of two templars only a few tables away.

Eventually she did notice his glances, and with a small sigh she put down her fork and said, “Alright, what is it?”

“I have been...trying to understand you,” Fenris said.

Her eyebrows quirked. “Oh?”

“You are proud of your magic, yet you do not carry your staff openly. Nor have I seen you casting spells as of late.”

“Well, I’m not an idiot,” Nyssa replied. “Just because I take pride in my abilities doesn’t mean I don’t also fear templars.”

“Hmm.”

“I also don’t want to cause these townsfolk any trouble. That may be hard for you to believe, but I am aware of the dangers of magic. Superstitious fear may lean towards the ridiculous, but it is not entirely unjustified.” Nyssa paused to take a bite of her bread, then added, “Besides, there are likely apostates here already.”

“I doubt that.”

“You think the templars can root out every mage in every corner of Thedas?”

Nyssa leaned forward, her dark eyes looking at him over her mug. “There are thousands of mages living outside the Circles.”

“I know,” Fenris said. “They’re called magisters.”

“I don’t mean them,” she said impatiently.

“Then by all means, make your point.”

Nyssa sighed. “I don’t really want to talk about this. We’re going to disagree.”

“If you knew what I had seen,” Fenris said, and picked up his mug, “you would think differently.”


	3. Chapter 3

The room they rented was better suited to couples, or at the least people who were used to living in close proximity. Fenris and Nyssa were neither, and the lack of space was somewhat uncomfortable. There was no bathtub, one chair -- not even a modesty screen. Still, it was better than sleeping in the stables.

“I have been considering your offer,” Fenris said into the quiet.

Nyssa bent over the wash basin. She’d been removing her armour in bits and using a rough cloth to wipe away the dust from the road, while Fenris busied himself and tried not to glance at her bare back illuminated by the fire.

“You said you could replace the lyrium,” he added.

“Yes, I should be able to.”

“Can you remove it?”

Nyssa was silent for a few minutes, although he heard the water splashing over the basin and the rustle of her clothes. Fenris leaned his sword against the far wall and glanced over his shoulder. She was dressed in a loose shirt and leggings, her hair falling over her shoulders, and she was looking at him with an expression perilously close to pity.

“I don’t think I can,” she said softly.

The answer was not unexpected, but still he felt a little disappointed. He covered it up with a shrug and packed his whetstone away.

 

For Fenris, sleep did not come so easily. The pain in his lyrium markings was constant; it only varied in intensity depending on the day. Specifically his hands tingled and burned from using his whetstone, and he felt the swollen finger joints protest when he clenched his fists together.

He sat by the fire in the hope the heat would help, curling his fingers in his lap and enduring the pain without protest. Eventually his hands would cease to trouble him, and he could attempt sleep. This was how it had been for years.

A touch on his shoulder made him jerk involuntarily, his markings flaring to life. He cursed low as the pain in his hands intensified.

“What is it?” he said, a little harsher than he’d intended.

He hadn’t heard Nyssa get up. She stood across from him, holding a small ceramic jar in one hand.

“Here,” she said. “I have a salve for such a thing.” When Fenris looked wary, she beckoned him over to the bed. “Come. At least let me try it. If it hurts, I can stop.”

There was no arguing with this woman, it seemed. 

Nyssa rested his hand on her knee and smoothed the salve across his palm, then spread it to the back of his knuckles and calloused fingers. As she worked she gently curled and uncurled his fingers, pressing her fingerpads into the joints. It did hurt at first. Then the fluid in his joints began to dissipate, and the stiffness melted away.

“You are practiced at this,” he observed.

“I’m a healer,” Nyssa replied, her head bent over his hand. “My mother was a healer, too.”

“She was a mage?”

“No, but she taught me everything there is to know about Dalish medicine.” Nyssa gently laid one hand back on his thigh, then reached for the other. “I learned magical healing from a Rivaini seer.”

“Ah.” He knew a little about the seers despite never being to Rivain. Isabela had told him about the hedge witches who practiced their magic away from Chantry influence, even allowing themselves to be possessed by spirits. The thought should have made him wary, but the salve had taken away the pain in his hands. He was beginning to relax, and Maker knew how long it had been since he felt that way.

Nyssa had finished applying the salve, but kept his hand resting on her knee. She turned it palm up and traced the line from his thumb to his wrist.

“There really is no place Danarius left untouched, is there?” she said quietly.

Despite himself, Fenris chuckled. “There are a few.”

“Not what I meant.” Nyssa pressed one of the markings, and he flinched. “Sorry. May I see some of your other markings?”

Fenris stood and flexed his hands, splaying them out before him. The salve was pungent, but certainly effective. Wordlessly he shucked his shirt and tossed it onto the chair.

Nyssa’s eyes widened, though he didn’t flatter himself at the reason. The lines of lyrium spread across his chest from shoulder to shoulder, curling over his abdomen and disappearing past his leggings. At a distance they looked like tattoos; he had been mistaken for a Dalish more than once before. Up close the scar tissue was more obvious.

He would have felt vulnerable and awkward in any other circumstance -- he balked at being treated like an object of curiosity. Only Isabela’s teasing had made him feel more at ease, and only because he knew it came from a place of affection.

Strangely, it wasn’t so bad. Nyssa looked quietly, asking him to turn so the light caught the lyrium. She touched him only with his permission; stretching out one arm, rotating it inwards, smoothing one hand over his hip and gently spreading his skin to check the extent of the scarring.

There was some pain, but Fenris didn’t mind. He watched the light catch red and gold strands in her hair and the curve of her eyelashes. There was a little scar on her cheekbone that interrupted the lines of her tattoos. He wondered if they hurt when she received them.

His breathing quickened at her hand on his abdomen. To conceal it Fenris said, “Are magical healers common among the Dalish?”

“Most Keepers know a little about healing.” Nyssa straightened. “Spirit healing requires communicating with spirits to heal more serious injuries. It’s carefully monitored, even more so in the Circles.”

That made him frown. “Does that not make you more susceptible to demons?”

She shrugged. “As much as any mage, I suppose.”

“Comforting.”

“What do you want me to say?” she asked. “I’m not going to waste time insisting how not all mages are like the ones who abused you. You already know that, or you would have killed me back on the road.”

There was no point denying that. It was true.

He was in the middle of pulling on his shirt when Nyssa said, “It will not hurt.”

“What?”

“Replacing the lyrium in your markings. I will ensure you feel nothing.”

Fenris sighed. “It is not only pain that concerns me.”

How could he explain in a way she would understand? The memory of the ritual made him tremble deep in his bones; the pain was only one part of it. Recreating it could cause more harm than good. Worse, it could harm her.

He wasn’t ready to face the consequences, whatever they may be. Whether that changed was anyone’s guess.

* * *

The Imperial hunters caught up to them after leaving Hambleton.

Fenris was not a fool. He knew they would have found the burnt bodies of the slavers by now, and likely figured out what his next target was. Hambleton was the only town on the road between here and Ostwick, so their trail had been obvious.

He was only surprised they hadn’t caught up to them sooner.

 

There was no ambush, no warning. The Tevinters set up a roadblock instead -- one he and Nyssa came upon mere hours after they left the town.

Between the food, conversations and the night spent in an actual bed, he was feeling less and less wary of Nyssa by the minute. She wasn’t the first mage Fenris knew outside the Tevinter Imperium, not the first elven mage or even the first Dalish mage. What he expected her to do and what she had done so far were entirely different. It was...refreshing.

The Tevinters, however, always behaved as he expected.

“Ready to give up, slave?”

It was a half-dozen bounty hunters and an  _ altus _ this time; a man barely out of boyhood, wearing a sneer that made him the picture of his father.

“You,” Fenris hissed.

Nyssa glanced at him. “You know him?”

“I know his face. His father is a magister.”

“Let me deal with him,” she said.

 

None of the bounty hunters moved as Nyssa stepped forward and took the stick from her belt.

“This one will fetch a high price,” the altus said. “Do not damage her.”

Fenris stiffened in fury and reached for his sword, but Nyssa waved him back with a gesture. Her staff had returned to its normal size, and the crystal began to glow yellowish-green. She looked directly at the altus, grinned, then struck the ground with the butt of her staff.

 

The road split apart, the earth cracking and splintering like threads unraveling on a tapestry. Several of the bounty hunters cried out as the ground opened up underneath them in a great fissure. Their screams were muffled as the earth then swallowed them whole and resealed itself, as if it had never come apart.

There was a moment of stunned silence, broken only by Fenris’s laugh.

“You owe your gifts to my people,  _ shemlen _ ,” Nyssa said. “Best you not forget it.”

The altus got to his feet and retrieved his staff, his face red with rage. He shouted a command in Tevene and what remained of the hunters advanced.

“Impressive,” Fenris said as Nyssa rejoined him.

“I have a few tricks up my sleeve.” She made a gesture and a barrier of shimmering light sprung up around them. “Can you handle the hunters?”

“I’ve slaughtered many of Danarius’s lapdogs over the years. Not one has gotten the better of me.”

“Even so, keep the barrier. Wouldn’t want you to mark that pretty face.”

 

“ _ Pretty? _ ” Fenris said, but then she was gone, stepping forward to meet the altus’s spell with one of her own.

Pretty. He smirked -- then the expression turned into a snarl when one of the hunters attacked, swinging his flail in a wide arc. The weapon clattered uselessly against the barrier.

Fenris surged forward and beheaded him in one swift strike, then turned and kicked the legs out from under the next man to get too close. That one he slashed across the stomach, using the momentum to let him fall into another hunter. He buried his blade into both, grinning savagely as the light fled from their eyes.

“Fenris!”

 

Nyssa’s warning cry prompted him to duck as a sword whistled by, close enough to shave a few hairs off his head. Fenris punched his fist through the man’s torso without thinking, and shouted at the pain stabbing through his fingers. With his other hand he pulled the greatsword from the other corpses and, crying out with the effort, slashed the hunter’s throat. 

He collapsed, blood pouring from the ragged wound, and Fenris looked around frantically for Nyssa.

She was mere feet away, crouched over the smoking corpse of the altus, and there was a hunter closing in on her -- the last hunter left alive. She was exhausted, leaning heavily on her staff, sweating and gasping for breath. The hunter approached her, his sword drawn.

Fenris knew how this would end.

 

He twisted his hand frantically, then used his free hand to tear at the wound he’d created in the hunter’s abdomen. One second -- five seconds -- ten seconds --

His hand came out a mess, but uninjured. Fenris barely had time to react before he heard Nyssa’s agonized scream. 

The hunter shouted as Fenris slammed into him. His next words died in his throat as the greatsword near cut him in half with one blow.

Fenris allowed himself a moment to rest, his chest heaving as he bent double. The rustle of movement nearby roused him enough to look up, only to see Nyssa on her knees with her hands covered in blood, pale and shaking. He went to her.

“Where are you hurt?”

“I don’t…” she stopped, teeth chattering. “I don’t know. I can’t--”

Fenris followed the smear of blood on her shoulder and found a great slash across her back, deep enough to part skin and underlying muscle. Not a serious wound, but serious enough. He told her as much.

He checked the dead Tevinters while she climbed to her feet and let the staff support her. They had little useful on them besides gold and rations, but he hadn’t expected any less. When he was done he returned to her and said, “We should take shelter.”

“Yes,” Nyssa said. She was still pale but the tremours had begun to subside, and seemed to improve as she breathed deeply. “Do you see that statue just off the road?”

Fenris followed the direction of her pointing. It was hard to see through the trees, especially covered in moss, but he made out the vague shape of a woman. “I see it.”

“That is a statue of Mythal. There may be a shrine nearby we can shelter in. I’ll need to heal myself.”

“You need rest first,” Fenris replied, and took her free hand. “Lean on me. It will be easier to walk.”

“I’m fine, Fenris,” she said, irritated. “It’s not my first battle.”

“Even so, it is dangerous to exhaust yourself. I would think as a mage you would know that.”

Nyssa laughed wryly. “The altus was a little tougher than I thought.”

“More likely you used up too much of your mana with your parlour tricks.”

She laughed again and leaned against his side, and together they followed the path off the road.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning that this chapter contains depictions of abuse and trauma including flashbacks.

Nyssa guessed correctly.

The statue of Mythal led to a path so overgrown with foliage he could barely follow it, and ended at a half-covered entrance built into a hillside and framed with the same types of statues.

The shrine was dark, half-collapsed and the air smelled like mildew, but it was dry and hid them from the Tevinters. That was sufficient for now.

Nyssa stumbled over to the entrance and made a sweeping gesture with shaking hands. As Fenris watched, the rocks they’d climbed over piled themselves high over the entrance, leaving no more than a foot of space. 

It was still daylight, and the rays of sunlight interrupted with the silhouette of stone, but there was light enough to see her lean against the wall heavily. He could hear her gasping breaths from halfway across the room.

“Stop,” he said tersely, and dropped the kindling he’d collected. “You will only lose more strength.”

She glanced over her shoulder, shook her head and made another gesture. He felt... _ something _ pass over him, but there was nothing there.

“A ward,” she said by way of explanation, as he glanced at her. “It will keep us protected.”

“From what, exactly?”

Nyssa shrugged, then grimaced as the movement pulled at her wound. “Demons. Giant spiders. Cave beetles.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “Cave beetles?”

“If you’d seen a swarm, you’d understand. They can strip the flesh from your bones in minutes.”

 

While he started a fire, Nyssa unrolled the blanket tied onto her pack and removed her scarf, sash and coat gingerly. That he didn’t pay too much attention to. Only when she began to untie her tunic did he shoot her a glance.

“Let me,” he said as she slowly bent to retrieve her pack.

Nyssa sank to her knees with a sigh and watched him rummage through her pack.

“There’s a suture kit in there,” she said. “The rolled pouch. A waterskin.”

“I have it.”

 

The wound was not as deep as Fenris initially thought, and for that he was relieved. The blade had caught her on the shoulder and bit into the muscle over her left shoulder blade, petering out just right of her spine.

The shoulder was not of much concern; it was shallow and would heal on its own, albeit with a scar. Fenris cleaned the wound with an elfroot solution he found in her suture kit and stitched the deepest parts of it together. He had done this only once before in truth, in the Deep Roads nearly eight years ago, when Hawke’s healing potions ran out and all they had was a suture kit much like this. There had certainly been enough scars between them, and it almost made Fenris wish for Anders’ presence. 

Almost.

Nyssa flinched once or twice when the callouses on his hands scraped on the sensitive flesh, and he often heard her breaths coming quick and shallow when he pierced her flesh with the needle. Otherwise she said nothing.

“Who is Mythal?” he asked, while he worked.

“She is supposed to be the goddess of justice,” Nyssa replied. “My vallaslin honours her. I thought it a fitting choice.” She sounded rueful.

“You do not believe in their existence?”

“No.” She sounded sad. “Not any of them.”

To not believe in anything...Fenris knew how that felt. He hadn’t cared to learn about the elven pantheon after he escaped Tevinter -- they had always seemed no more than an illusion the Dalish clung to out of desperation. Even the Maker seemed more of an idea and less something he could feel or believe.

If he had known before he received his markings...perhaps he would think differently. But that was as pointless as waiting for his memories to return.

 

Stitching Nyssa’s wound took longer than expected. The sutures were rough but held together the cut flesh, and she would heal it when her strength returned. It was sufficient.

Fenris offered his hand and helped her to her feet. Without thinking his eyes flicked downward, noticing the line of red pigment on her neck. She was wearing underclothes, of course, but they did little to cover the spreading branches of red tattoos that covered her collarbones and in between her breasts.

“Unfortunately, they don’t glow,” Nyssa said with an amused smile.

Caught off-guard, Fenris coughed awkwardly. “Ah, I...apologize.”

She laughed, and his ears burned. “It’s alright.”

 

Nyssa lay down to rest, leaving Fenris to clean his blade and keep watch. He was nervous in this place -- he knew well how easily demons and other vermin found their way into dark, forgotten places like these, and he did not trust her ward. Tired as he was he could not sleep, and his thoughts kept returning to what awaited him at Ostwick, and a single recurring thought: would this ever end?

If he killed the Tevinters at Ostwick, what would prevent another magister from seeking to reclaim him? It was wearying to think of endless years ahead, forever being hunted. At some point there had to be a permanent solution.

 

Fenris didn’t remember falling asleep, and there was no sunlight to greet him when he awoke. He was stiff and sore from leaning against the hard wall. There was a blanket tucked around him and Nyssa was nowhere to be seen.

“ _ Kaffas _ ,” he muttered and threw off the blanket. How could he allow himself to fall asleep so easily?

There was a noise to his right and Nyssa appeared from the darkness, carrying a handful of what looked like mushrooms in one hand.

“I woke to find you fast asleep,” she said. “Look what I found! Deep mushrooms in one of the side chambers. I needed these.”

“You should not have ventured in without me,” Fenris said sharply. “Places such as these are dangerous.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine. I do this a lot.” 

Indeed she did seem refreshed and moving about with ease, her clothes scrubbed clean and mended.

“I...am ready for your spell,” Fenris said. “To replace the lyrium in these markings.”

Nyssa stopped in the middle of packing away the mushrooms and glanced up. “Are you sure?”

“I am.”

She hesitated. “You will need to remove your clothes. Are you comfortable with that?”

Fenris nodded. That wasn’t  _ entirely _ true, but it needed to be done. A few moments of discomfort was worth the advantage these markings gave him.

 

The ritual had been inflicted while he stood, arms spread and chained while the lyrium had been branded into his flesh. Instead Nyssa had him lay on her blanket and rest his head on his arms.

“If you need to stop,” she said. “You let me know.”

He didn’t trust his voice at that moment, so he nodded in response. From his position he saw Nyssa uncork the vial of lyrium from her bag and draw out its glowing vapour with a gesture. 

Fenris closed his eyes, willed his mind to go blank. He could hear the hum of the lyrium nearby, filling his ears.

 

_ Leto screamed, hoarse from the rawness of his throat. The white-hot agony flowed down the backs of his legs as the lyrium branded into his skin.  _

_ Was there to be no end to this pain? He felt like an open wound, raw and oozing, and the sweat on his body stung when it dripped into the fresh brands. _

_ The sharpness of the pain eased. The formari looked at Danarius, uncertain and questioning. Leto’s head hung limp, his hair damp with sweat. The brown-black of his hair was nearly gone, turned to silver. _

_ Danarius grasped his chin and forced his head upright. Leto’s eyes met his. His eyelids were fluttering. His mouth moved wordlessly. _

_ “Give the boy a rest,” he said. “Then continue.” _

 

An insistent hum in his ears, penetrating the haze. The hum turned into a melody, then to words.

Fenris came back to Nyssa’s low singing as she manipulated the lyrium in his markings. There was, as she promised, no pain. It was a phantom feeling, almost as if he knew it should hurt.

He couldn’t understand the language of her song, not really, but the rhythm of the words tugged at something in his memory. He was sweating, and he didn’t know why, but his muscles began to relax.

_ “Elgara vallas, da’len, melava somniar…” _

Warm arms around him. Dark hair and green eyes. Comfort for the tears he shed from the foreman’s beating.

“Leto,” the faceless woman said. “Leto.”

_ “Mala taren aravas, ara ma’desen melar…” _

* * *

He had to stop twice after that.

Once when she reached the back of his legs, and the sensitive flesh brought back the memory of that pain in a tidal wave -- the next when she worked on the markings low on his hips. It wasn’t shyness that made him squim away from her, but the memory of the conversation with his master following the ritual, and what happened after.

Last was his face and chest, and Nyssa asked him to stay still while she replaced the lyrium. Fenris lay on his back and held her hand, so he could signal her to stop with a pressure on her palm. 

He watched her manipulating the lyrium in a vapour cloud above his head, and wondered how she had done it. No doubt he would also require ‘maintaining’ at some point in the future, and if she wasn’t around -- that thought stung more than it should.

“It’s done,” she murmured.

Fenris watched wearily as she returned the lyrum to her vial and repacked it into her bag. There was not much left, and he suddenly felt guilty. Lyrium was not cheap, and the Chantry had a monopoly on it. Any vials had to be bought on the black market, and would probably have lasted her months if not years.

Nyssa returned to his side and dabbed at his forehead with a damp cloth, then combed his hair back with her hands. “How do you feel?”

“Strange,” he said truthfully.

“A good strange or bad strange?”

“Good...I think.”

Her hand lingered on his cheek, her thumb rubbing in slow circles. Was she leaning closer, or was he merely tired?

Unthinkingly he rose to meet her. Their lips brushed, first tentatively, then with fervour. Her mouth was as soft as he imagined.

Then just as suddenly she pulled back.

“We shouldn’t be doing this right now.” When he looked puzzled she added, “You just relived what must have been a traumatic experience. Your body needs time to rest and adjust to the lyrium.”

“I feel fine,” he said. It was true he was tired, but for the first time in months he did not hurt all over. He didn’t hurt at all.

The expression on Nyssa’s face was conflicted, like she was having an argument with herself. 

“I can’t...I shouldn’t." With a deep breath she pulled away further, and he tried not to show his disappointment.

 

They stayed in the shrine until the next morning, then resealed it and headed for Ostwick.

A little awkwardness had settled between them since the kiss. Fenris found himself replaying it in his head, wondering if he had misinterpreted her body language...but no. She had returned the kiss, he was sure of it. Something else had bothered her enough to pull away.

He glanced at her often while they walked. She seemed happy to walk beside him, their hands brushing occasionally. She filled the silence with talk about her life growing up in a Dalish clan.

Fenris had never been impressed with the Dalish elves, especially knowing how they viewed those of their kind who lived under human rule. They saw themselves as noble protectors and true elves, while the people they could help suffered and died under the yoke.

We are the last of the elvhen, and never again shall we submit. As if ekeing out a living in the woods was resisting the humans. He said as much to Nyssa, and was surprised when she agreed.

“I understand wanting to learn about the past,” she siad. “But at some point we must think about what comes next.”

 

Ostwick was famous for its double walls of near-impenetrable stone, built after the Qunari invaded the Free Marches hundreds of years ago. Apart from that Fenris knew almost nothing about the place. 

According to Nyssa most of the city began at the harbour and spread outwards, and the fortifications included a set of pillars that, if needed, could raise a further gate to hamper any incoming ships. The Free Marchers had learned their lessons well, it seemed.

They were both cloaked and hooded to avoid questions about their appearance, but the light rain falling worked in their favour. They had little trouble getting into the city. The next step was ensuring the slavers could not gain a foothold in Ostwick.

“We should check the alienage,” Fenris said in a low voice as they passed the guards at the gate. “Most slavers begin there -- missing elves are of little consequence to the city guard.”

Her jaw tightened, and she nodded.

“They will regret the day they set foot in Ostwick,” she said in a low voice, filled with anger, and Fenris felt a smile pull at his lips.

“Shall we?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for mentions of slavery.

Alienages were much the same in every city, and it didn’t take a seasoned traveler to know where they might be located. It was always the poorest district, the ‘bad side’ of the city, where the humans avoided.

The way _to_ the alienage was pleasant, with little winding streets and brightly coloured shops selling everything from fresh flowers to hats. Fenris spied a hat shaped like a triangle and decorated with feathers, and he thought of Isabela. She would wear such a thing with pride.

His face changed as he caught sight of an elven beggar on the street corner, face half-covered in a ragged scarf.

“Even here, our kind would rather accept subjugation than resist,” he said grimly.

“Him?” Nyssa said. “He’s missing a leg, Fenris. What can he do, hit the guards with his cane?”

“It is not just him.” Fenris frowned as they passed the beggar; Nyssa pulled a coin from her purse and tossed it to the elf. “You have seen the condition of these alienages. You know well how they are treated. They are not slaves, yet they squander their freedom.”

“Sometimes it’s not just about them,” she replied mildly. “If some fought back, it would be the ones who can’t defend themselves who suffered more.”

“Then they should learn to defend themselves.”

Nyssa looked exasperated. “I understand what you mean, but it’s not always that simple.”

 

The alienage had no gates much like the Kirkwall alienage, and thus no city guards to contend with. It was dirty and run-down with a large, painted tree taking pride of place in the centre. The _vhenadahl_ , Merrill called it. There were children playing under its branches, and a roughly made wooden board next to a large tree root.

Fenris went straight to the board, while Nyssa examined the patterns on the vhenadahl.

He’d seen boards similar to these in smaller villages. There were layers upon layers of paper nailed into the wood, mostly job offers and notices of sale, obituaries and people offering their skills.

There -- an offer of work on the docks, promising generous payment in Orlesian crowns. He’d often seen slavers post similar notes in other cities. They would lure desperate workers in with false promises, then pack them onto a slave ship bound for Minrathous.

“Are you looking for work?” said a voice behind him.

Fenris turned to find an elven woman looking at him with a hopeful expression. She wasn’t a young woman; her hair was beginning to grey at the roots, and she had large blue eyes. She blinked at him, her eyes flicking to his markings, then seemed to decide his appearance was of less consequence.

“Is there something you need done?” he asked.

“My son,” the woman said. She held out a small portrait of an adolescent with the same blue eyes. “He wanted to become a sailor. We argued, and he ran away.” She blinked tears from her eyes. “I fear he’s joined the crew of some merchant ship, and I’ll never see him again.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Nearly four days ago.”

“Have you noticed anything else strange?” Fenris pressed. “Humans asking odd questions? Disappearances?”

The woman frowned. “There’s always disappearances, serah. City guard doesn’t waste effort on the likes of us.”

“They should,” Fenris said grimly.

 

Nyssa was talking to some of the children by the vhenadahl, all of whom were shouting questions about her vallaslin and ‘funny clothes’. When Fenris touched her elbow she turned and smiled at him.

“Any luck?”

“Yes,” Fenris said. “Come.”

* * *

 

Fenris spotted the ship immediately as they arrived at the docks. It was anchored further out in the harbour, one among dozens of merchant ships too bulky to manuevre into the harbour’s pinch point -- as was the purpose of such a design, he knew.

“There it is,” he said to Nyssa, pointing.

She followed his gaze. “How can you tell?”

“Its hull is bell-shaped, to allow the slaves to be concealed.” He gestured to the ship’s hull, which was carved with a motif of dragons. “I have seen those designs in Vyrantium.”

“What do you want to do?” she asked.

“Kill the slavers. Free the slaves. Burn it to ash.”

She grinned, showing her teeth. “An excellent plan.”

“Tonight,” Fenris said. “After sunset. Slavers work after dark to avoid detection by the city guard.”

His stomach rumbled suddenly, and he flushed.

“First we eat!” Nyssa said, laughing. “Then we do everything else.”

 

It was early evening, but most of the shops they’d passed on the way to the alienage were still open, and the smell of cooking meat made Fenris’s stomach protest even more. Undoubtedly there were taverns they could eat and rest, but he was in no mood to be stared at tonight.

Nyssa bought a loaf of bread and some cheese from a food stall owned by a dwarf with the longest beard Fenris had ever seen. He stood by watching the people come and go until he felt a touch on his hand. He jerked away at first, then let their fingers intertwine.

“What is it?” he said.

“Come on.”

She lead him into the nearest alley, a tiny winding lane paved with cobblestones that hurt his feet. There was a ladder leaning against the side of the nearest building; the same hat shop they’d passed earlier.

“Let’s climb up,” Nyssa said.

Fenris looked up at the ladder, back to her, then raised his eyebrows.

“What?”

He gestured to the greatsword strapped to his back. “This blade is heavier than it looks. It makes climbing...difficult.”

Nyssa held out her hand. “Give it to me.”

Fenris did as she asked, drawing the blade and handing it to her hilt first. She ran her hand over the blade and it began to shrink, down and down until it was no bigger than a knife.

There was a moment of silence.

“I hope you can undo that,” he said dryly, and tucked it into his belt.

 

They sat on the roof of the shop and ate their bread and cheese, legs dangling over the sides and shoulders bumping.

“I realize I’ve been a little distant since yesterday,” Nyssa said eventually, while they ate. “I’ve had a lot to think about. The kiss…”

“If I misread your intentions, you need only to say,” Fenris said. “I do not intend to pressure you.”

“It wasn’t…” she sighed. “I cannot say it was an intention to find myself here with you. I’m returning to Val Royeaux. I have tasks I have set myself...things that need to be done that I trust nobody but myself to do. A purpose I can’t stray from.”

That piqued his curiosity somewhat. Nyssa had mentioned she was taking passage from Ostwick to Val Royeaux, though why anyone would willingly go to Orlais was anyone’s guess. Fenris had his fill of Orlesians after the debacle at Chateau Haine. Still he found himself asking, “Is there some reason I cannot accompany you?”

Nyssa looked startled, then thoughtful.

“Well, no,” she said. “But I assumed you had your own plans here, with slavers still in the Free Marches.”

“I have been considering it,” Fenris said. “I killed many such groups in Kirkwall, who preyed on the unfortunate. I would be happy to show them one who can fight.”

Nyssa’s eyes softened. She touched his cheek affectionately, and he found himself drawn to her again, leaning over to kiss her. He hesitated, but she deepened the kiss a little and cupped his face in her hands.

He knew it would be wiser to pull back, to not let himself hope for more… but sometimes he wanted to be a little foolish. He let himself enjoy the moment, and laughed when she pulled back with a blush all the way to her ears.

“Mm, that is going to be hard to forget.” Nyssa brushed her hands through his hair. “You’re a good person, Fenris. I don’t meet many people like you.”

“Good?” Fenris replied, raising his eyebrows. “I was made to be a living weapon. Now I mete out my vengeance wherever I go. What sort of man enjoys killing, such as I do?”

“Not vengeance,” she said, her voice hard. “Justice. There is goodness in you, and kindness, and honour. Whatever darkness there is was placed in you by slave-masters. They created their own destruction.”

 

* * *

 

 

They didn’t have to wait long.

Moments after the sun slipped behind the island on the horizon, the slave ship lowered its boat and two figures in dark robes began to row towards the docks. As they grew closer Fenris could see their faces were half-covered, but he saw the sword at one’s belt was Tevinter make, and he knew it was likely the other was a mage.

Along the docks were workers, human and elven mostly, carrying rucksacks and clearly waiting for their would-be employers.

Fenris and Nyssa hid nearby in a lean-to piled high with crates. The wooden planks beneath him were soft, scrubbed pale by daily cleaning, but the smell of rotting fish remained. He tried not to let it bother him.

“What’s our plan?” Nyssa asked. “Confront them? Kill them?”

Fenris stood and drew his sword.

“Alright, kill them it is.”

 

They approached the pier, listening to the rise and fall of the slavers’ voices as they addressed the assembled workers.

“Should we flank -- “ Nyssa began, then Fenris cut her off with a shout.

“MALEFICAR!”

 

The workers separated like a parting wave. They didn’t need to know Tevene to be familiar with the word: it was in use across Thedas. Mages had seen to that.

“More slaves for the Imperium?” he growled. From his peripheral vision he saw Nyssa move into position and take her shrunken staff from her belt.

“ _You_ ,” one of the Tevinters said, his teeth bared. He carried no weapon on his belt -- but that didn’t mean he was unarmed.

“This man is a slaver,” Fenris called to the workers, who glanced back and forth between them. “I don’t suggest working for him.”

“Why should we listen to you, knife-ear?” shouted one human, a large man with a mop of shaggy hair.

“Hey!” said the elf next to him. “Mind what you say about knife-ears.”

“Do what you wish,” Fenris interrupted, as the human opened his mouth. “Whatever they are offering -- is it worth your freedom?”

 

The workers began to talk amongst themselves, their expressions uncertain and a little fearful. A nervous few separated themselves from the group.

“No, you don’t!” bellowed the slaver who had spoken. He flung out his hand --

Only to find it encased in ice, and the spell he was casting vanished in a puff of spirit energy. Nyssa stood beside Fenris, her hand frosting white in the dim light, her staff at the ready. The workers backed away rapidly, their voices tangled in panic, and the pier shook under his feet as they ran. They gave him and Nyssa a wide berth.

The other slaver drew his sword and advanced. Fenris stepped into his path and said, “Face me.”

Their blades clashed, hard enough to feel the vibrations in his teeth. Behind him he barely saw Nyssa raise her staff and cast a spell, one that made the air smell like lightning. Fog began to rise from the water, permeating through the wooden boards.

The slaver pressed forward step by step, pushing his weight against the locked blades. His sword wasn’t near as long or heavy; a rough, hand-and-a-half blade with a roughly wrapped hilt -- but he was stronger than Fenris, and in this case his lack of reach was an advantage.

Fenris slid to the side and let his blade drop sharply. The momentum carried the slaver forward, and he stumbled to his knees. Fenris buried his blade in the man’s back ended it with a quick twist.

 

The fog made it near impossible to see anything more than vague shapes, but he had lived with Fog Warriors for a time. He could feel the footsteps rumbling through the wooden boards, and he could hear the spark and snap of magic. That was enough for him. He hunkered down and kept moving forward, hefting the blade on his shoulder.

The Tevinter was stumbling blindly in the fog mere feet away, his hands flaming and his eyes darting from side to side.

“Curse the elf,” he muttered. “Where is she? _Where is she?_ ”

Fenris rose from a crouch as the man blundered towards him. He readied his sword, waiting for the moment to strike…

Then out of nowhere a bolt of lighting struck the slaver in the chest. He screamed silently, writhing as the electricity coursed through his body, then fell to the ground. The fog began to recede, revealing Nyssa.

“Bloody hell!” she said, spotting Fenris. “I could have struck you with that spell!”

“I suppose I was lucky,” Fenris said dryly, and poked the dead slaver with his toe. “The same can’t be said for him.”

 

The boat the slavers came in had barely enough room for two people to sit without knees and toes brushing together.

“We should hurry,” Nyssa said grimly. “No doubt someone has alerted the city guard.”

“I would prefer not to fight them, no.”

Rowing the boat was not as easy as it looked. Fenris had seen someone do it once before, and he had never been required to perform such a task under his master. Once he figured the momentum, the movement came easily enough. To her credit Nyssa didn’t comment on his rowing.

To be fair, _floundering_ would have been a better description. But she didn’t say that either, and for that Fenris was thankful.

 

The Tevinters thought themselves subtle enough to escape notice and powerul enough to ensure there were no witnesses to their crimes, but the first guard _noticed_ quickly enough when Fenris cut his throat. The thump of his body on the deck alerted the other guard, who began to shout.

“So much for stealth,” Nyssa said. Fenris wiped his knife on his leggings and helped her climb into the ship. The rope ladder they’d kept for the slavers worked to their advantage, as did the Tevinters’ complacency.

“Keep your magic to a minimum,” he said, as she aimed her staff at the remaining guard. “There are likely slaves on this ship.”

“What am I supposed to do, fight them with my bare hands?”

He gave her the knife. “I assume you know how to use this.”

Cursing, Nyssa switched her staff to her right hand and flanked him.

“You really try my patience sometimes,” she said.

“You sound like Hawke.”

The guard swung his greataxe in an overhead arc; Fenris dodged and the blade hacked into the deck, leaving a sizeable dent.

“Cursed slave!” the guard growled. He reared back, pulling at the weapon, but Fenris was already upon him. His fist phased through the man’s head.

“Oh, that’s disgusting,” Nyssa said. The guard dropped, blood gushing from his nose and mouth, and Fenris withdrew his fist. “Really, Fenris.”

“Would it have been better if I used my blade to run him through?” he replied, and bent to wipe his gore-covered fist on the guard’s tunic.

“Yes! Why bother asking? Of course it’s yes.”

 

“Are you quite finished?”

 

The voice was barely loud enough to reach them across the ship and yet, Fenris heard it clear as day. He rose slowly, shifting his grip on the pommel of his sword.

He hadn’t seen the man emerge from the cabin, but it was immediately clear he was no guard. Arrogance and power rolled off him in waves -- if that didn’t give him away, the gnarled staff he held did.

“Well, well,” Fenris said. “A magister deigns to leave the comforts of home.”

Nyssa shoved the knife into her belt and readied her staff. The humour was gone from her face.

“I am Magister Auren Calix,” the magister said. He was dark-haired, with a pointed beard and wearing robes of a rich red. “Put down the sword, slave, and surrender yourself quietly. I will ensure your journey back to the Imperium is comfortable.”

Fenris was shaking with anger and fear and adrenaline, and he gripped his sword so tight the blood pulsed through his palms, making them throb.

“Never,” he growled, and readied himself.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for mentions/depictions of slavery.

Calix laughed.

“Come now,” he said. “You knew this was inevitable. We will always find you, little wolf.”

The diminutive made the boiling rage in Fenris’s throat rise, almost choking him with its heat. He charged, sword raised --

A blast of magical energy hit the air around him, sizzled and dissipated. A barrier -- Nyssa’s doing, no doubt. She followed close behind, fingers moving as she drew a glyph in mid-air.

Calix shrugged off one of her spells and moved easily out of range. Fenris stalked him, greatsword at the ready. His anger had cooled, replaced by wariness. A laetan or an altus was one thing. A magister was another; a spellbinder who had decades of experience and a wealth of power at his fingertips. One wrong move and it would be deadly for both of them.

 

The wind picked up over the harbour as they fought. For every foot they gained the magister took back -- but Nyssa countered every spell he cast, and slowly but surely they pressed forward. Magic crackled through the air, sparking and snapping until Fenris’s markings began to tingle with an almost unbearable energy -- like an itch under his skin.

Calix retreated back towards the stairwell leading up to the elevated deck. His robes were disheveled and smoking; his face sweating and red with rage. They were wearing him down-- but if he gained the higher ground, the battle might very well turn in his favour.

“Corner him!” Fenris yelled, ducking under another spell.

“That’s what I’ve been  _ trying _ to --”

Nyssa cut herself off with a frustrated grunt, and a large stone appeared in front of her. With a gesture she flung it at Calix, who smacked it out of mid-air with his staff. The stone exploded, showering him with shrapnel.

“Aargh!”

He stumbled back, clutching at his face. Nyssa laughed wildly.

“I knew he would do that!” she shouted into the wind.

Calix raised his head and his gaze focused on her. His eyes began to burn red, and the cuts on his face began to smoke. Then he  _ howled _ ; an inhuman sound that turned Fenris’s blood to ice.

“Get back,” he shouted to Nyssa, and sprinted towards her. “ _ Back! _ ”

 

The magister flung his arms wide and a wave of red, crackling energy swept across the deck.

Fenris grabbed Nyssa by the arm, trying to force her down, to shield her with his body -- then she shouted a word in elven and slammed the butt of her staff into the deck. A corona of white-blue light surrounded the magister, pinning his arms to his sides.

In the same moment the red magic hit -- and darkness swallowed them whole.

 

Fenris came to sprawled on the deck only a few seconds later. He’d been knocked down by the magister’s spell, tossed like a ragdoll into the mizzen mast.

He grasped for his sword, grimacing as his spine protested, and raised himself up on his elbows. In his peripheral vision he saw Calix on his knees, his arms pinned to his sides by a shimmering prison of magical energy. Before him stood Nyssa, levelling her staff at him.

“Out of practice, human?” she said to the magister, and he spat at her. “Well, that’s rude.”

“Perish in the Void, slave!”

Fenris closed the space between them in a few quick strides. He grabbed the magister by the throat and forced his head up.

“How did you find me?”

Even trapped in a crushing magical vortex, the magister still glared at him defiantly. Fenris gripped until his gauntlet dug into the man’s throat, ignoring Nyssa’s quiet admonishment.

“How. Did. You. Find Me?”

“Fenris,” Nyssa said sharply, as he tightened his grip. “He can’t talk if you choke him to death.”

“You will be taken apart,” the magister rasped. “You will be given to the  _ dogs!  _ Not even your bones will remain!”

Fenris phased his fist through the man’s throat and twisted.

 

Calix had turned the captain’s cabin into a room more suited to a brothel or a mansion than a ship. Most of the space was taken up by a large, polished wooden table, with seating in the Tevinter style and air that smelled of heavy perfume and oil. Upon the table was a scroll and beside it, a glass sphere suspended in a delicate mechanism of some sort. The sphere’s deep red centre pulsed strongly, as if in sync with a heart beat. On the far wall was a mounted map of Thedas that appeared stained with red.

Nyssa kept her staff upright as she went in cautiously, hand outstretched. She went to the sphere immediately and began to examine it.

 

Fenris leaned his sword against the wall and went to the map. He’d seen its like in Danarius’s mansion in Kirkwall -- in particular, one mounted on the chamber wall with similar blots. He recognised it as a map of Thedas.

He leaned closer, tracing the east coast with one finger. Past Salle, Bastion, Hercinia -- there was Ostwick, marked with a symbol he suddenly realised he also recognised. He’d seen that symbol once, sealed in red wax on a letter in Danarius’s hand. He’d been waving it as he shouted at one of his slaves, a girl who had spilled his wine on an expensive carpet. 

Fenris remembered standing at his side, trying to ignore the girl’s tears, and praying he would not feel his master’s wrath later.

“Fenris?”

 

He turned quicker than he meant, muscles tense. Nyssa beckoned him over to the table with one hand, her gaze fixed on the glass sphere. As he walked closer it began to pulse brighter and brighter.

“I think this is how they have tracked you,” she said.

“Magic.” He scowled. “Of course.”

“They use similar techniques to track Circle mages, I believe.” She held out the sphere. “Do you want to do the honours, or shall I?”

Fenris shook his head, and returned to the map on the wall. He took it down and rolled it as tightly as he could, then tucked it into his belt. Behind him he heard the shattering of glass, and Nyssa made a satisfied sound.

 

* * *

In the end the ship didn’t burn. There were other slaves chained in its cargo hold like Fenris predicted; he and Nyssa freed them and put them on rowboats with whatever treasures they could salvage from Calix’s quarters and the bowels of the ship. The bodies of the Tevinters they dumped in a separate rowboat and set adrift in the harbour.

Let their fellow slavers find them, Fenris thought, and know their days are numbered.

He and Nyssa took the last rowboat back to the docks and slipped away, back to the market. It was midnight, and there were guards on patrol. They took to the roof of the hat shop again, and sat in silence for a while looking at the stars.

“What will you do now?” Nyssa asked him after a while.

Fenris pulled the scroll from his belt and spread it on the rooftop. Nyssa conjured an arcane light above their heads.

“I found this in the magister’s chambers,” he said, and pointed to the red symbol above Ostwick. “They are locations of slaver cells, similar to the groups I hunted in Kirkwall.”

“They’re all over Thedas,” she said incredulously. Their shoulders brushed as she leaned over the map. “Llomerynn -- Jader -- Wycome. Gwaren? Who goes to Gwaren?”

“Tevinter slavers, apparently,” Fenris replied. “Preying on the poor and vulnerable, as we saw here. Run by the hunters we killed near Markham, and mages like the one we killed tonight.”

“I wish I could come with you.”

 

Impulsively he took her hand, pressing her fingers between his.

“You could, if you truly wish,” he said, a little uncertainly, for he knew what her answer would be.

“I can’t.” She looked upset now, her hand twitching as if she wanted to pull away. “You know I can’t.”

It was as he expected, but he couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed. Some joys were only temporary; that was a lesson he’d learned many a time.

 

Neither of them slept. Fenris was too keyed up; invigorated by the thought of a new purpose and determined to make the most of the hours they had left. Nyssa talked about her experience in Rivain, and her time in Antiva City, and the people she’d met. Fenris told her what he remembered of Seheron and the Fog Warriors, and was pleased at her delight over his descriptions. 

He did not tell her what he did to them. A small part of him balked at his cowardice, but  he justified it by reminding himself he would likely never see her again. He wanted her to remember him well -- if she did at all. 

He didn’t much like that thought, either.

 

By the time the city began to awaken they headed back to the docks, with another loaf of bread and a ticket purchased from the harbourmaster. She had just enough coin to take her back to Val Royeaux, and then she would start again. That was the fun of it, she told him, laughing. Making a fresh start in a new city, with a new purpose. Or an old one, but with new possibilities.

Fenris watched her board the ship with a heart lighter than it had been in a year, and then he turned and headed for the city gates.

Time to hunt, he thought, and patted the map in his belt.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Afterimage](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17197586) by [FenHarelMaGhilana (WhitethornWolf)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhitethornWolf/pseuds/FenHarelMaGhilana)




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